


With Your Hand In My Hand And A Pocket Full Of Soul

by ohfrecklefreckle, OutfieldOutlaw



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bandom - Freeform, Devil Patrick, M/M, Peterick, Smut, Soul Punk Era, soul punk patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfrecklefreckle/pseuds/ohfrecklefreckle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutfieldOutlaw/pseuds/OutfieldOutlaw
Summary: ~Compliments still felt insincere and empty at times – as if he wasn't handsome enough or good enough before – but his own eyes were becoming more sympathetic and that had to count for something.~Explicit smut with a hint of bad language.Old school disclaimer: M/M RPF - you have been warned! If you don't like RPF then please don't read it. Barely registers on the angst scale. Enjoy!





	With Your Hand In My Hand And A Pocket Full Of Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes from a late night conversation I was having with OutfieldOutlaw  about Patrick during the SP era and particularly the Halloween 2011 performance when he was *coughs* borderline satanic. It developed into a 2k chat fic and we decided that it merited making into something we wanted to share. 
> 
> So, enjoy <3

Halloween was a festival lost on Patrick. As a kid he never had the confidence to go trick or treating and usually hung back while his sister did the talking. The outfits weirded him out and the whole thing was just, well, _odd_. As a teen it became a reason to go to parties and try to get girls to talk to him. The problem was that even when they did he couldn't say much in reply. For years he didn't even acknowledge it as an event but once the band was up and running he had learned that Joe and Pete couldn't get enough of the weird, the kooky and the creepy. Against his will he had been any one of many fancy dress characters and worn more bad costumes than he could count. The only one he didn't mind was the Ghostbusters get up from four years ago – their group logic being along the lines of who doesn't love Ghostbusters – as a practical boiler suit with a foiled cereal box on his back was different enough to stand out in but not so off the wall to feel an idiot until it was time to take it off again.

In his new life things were very different. Patrick had agreed to a Halloween gig based entirely on the fact that he could avoid all kinds of plans that he had no interest in being part of and a guarantee that the crowd would be amped up and pretty buzzed by the time he hit the stage. Coming on as a warm up act for Brendon wasn't a problem to him but, after years of being the main event, getting the crowd going with new material had its challenges and he would take all the help he could get.

The red suit he'd been saving for when the mood might take him seemed a perfectly fitting outfit and before the gig he'd been presented by his band with devil horns on a headband that, although not really his style, seemed to finish off his look with suitable silliness so he graciously agreed to wear them for his set. Out on stage he opened with a blast of the Ghostbusters theme tune that got the entire room bouncing and they ate out of his hand for the rest of the show. He forgot about the horns that blinked away in the dimly lit club until he burst back into his dressing room when the encore was over with the intention of quickly stripping off his sweat soaked clothes.

 

+++

 

His breathing is still on the ragged side as he comes down from the excitement of the gig but it's what makes it all worth it. It's the closest he ever comes to what he thinks high might feel like. Pete and Joe tried to explain it to him once but Patrick knows that he prefers the rush from performing to anything else. That feeling is the main reason Patrick found the motivation to go on the road in the first place. It wouldn't be long until Panic would be on stage and once the crowd were singing along he could get packed up and slip quietly out of the stage door. The 9:30 Club is an intimate venue, much more his style than mega arenas, but although he loves the guys on the tour and their non-stop party lifestyle in Patrick's head there's a lot to be said for a shower, comfy bed and whichever late night take out would deliver to his hotel the quickest.

The bow tie is the first thing to go and then Patrick sheds the fitted jacket, draping it carefully over the back of a rickety looking chair. It looks as if it has been dip dyed, the top half of it a deeper shade of crimson where his passion and enthusiasm has soaked through his skin and into the expensive linen.

Next off is the black heavy cotton shirt that had clung to him all night like a second skin. He feels obliged to be delicate with such expensive new clothes but to cool down he also needs to get the shirt off quickly. It feels stuck to him but button by button Patrick unfastens it hastily, right down to the double cuffs which he deftly pops the ruby encrusted cufflinks out of before putting them down carefully on the chair. He peels the drenched fabric down over his shoulders and then tugs it off one arm at a time. He feels a sense of sweet relief as the cool air rushes all around him, the trapped heat of the last forty five minutes escaping into the room.

Opposite where he stands and on the widest wall of the dressing room is a full length wall width mirror. After discarding the shirt Patrick can see the image of his naked torso looking back at him and feels strangely drawn towards it. It's not often that he wants to see what is staring back at him in any shiny surface but the way the gentle, almost blue-white light of the cheap strip bulb above his head highlights his pale skin makes him want to pay attention for once.

With a few steps he crosses the small room and stands around two feet away from the mirror before leaning forward and concentrating on his face, his eyes still darkened with the remnants of the eye make up and eyeliner he used to make himself look even more devilish for the stage. The rest has stained the cheap towels provided by the venue that he had gone through a pile of over the course of his set. The sheer madness of being stood staring at himself so blatantly – and appreciating himself so shamelessly – in the mirror whilst still clad in hot red dress pants and flashing horns would have been nothing but a pipe dream three years ago when he the only person fighting with make up remover after a show would have been Pete. Nobody called him pretty back then but that had all changed and somehow, _eventually_ , he is beginning to believe them.

He eyes himself up and down deliberately, almost hungrily, before focusing on his chest. Patrick looks over his slender, softly rounded shoulders, knowing that the gym had worked wonders for his body but he had a while to go yet before he would be wearing home made ripped up sleeveless vests out in public. Still, they were an improvement on the past and he felt better and knew he looked better. Compliments still felt insincere and empty at times – as if he wasn't handsome enough or _good enough_ before – but his own eyes were becoming more sympathetic and that had to count for something.

Pinking patterns are pressed into his skin from the stitching of the shirt and he traces them with his fingers, unsurprised at how damp and tacky his skin is but enjoying the sensation across the indents. Across the middle of his chest is a sprinkling of golden (or sometimes admittedly closer to strawberry blonde) hair, which catches both the light and his eye at the same time. He ghosts the flat of his hand over the hair, feeling it tickle at his palm and kickstart a delicious barely-there sensation that travels down the soft hairs and into his skin. The feeling continues on, connecting with his brain and causing a shiver to travel the full length of his spine. A soft sound behind him has the audacity to interrupt the increasing heat of the moment but a quick glance beyond himself in his reflection reveals he is still alone and that it's safe to carry on.

By then his hand has made it all the way across to his shoulder and Patrick traces two fingertips down his arm as far as the crook of his elbow and then down to his angular wrist. Goosebumps form on his skin sending another head to toe ripple of pleasure through him to the point where he doesn’t dare to let his fingers go any further for fear of where they may end up. Patrick looks down at himself, seeing that both of his nipples are flushed and hardened, standing out a hot pink against his pearlescent skin. The temptation to grab either one of them and pluck away with his fingers grows hard to resist but he isn't sure enough that his new found confidence extends to getting off to his own image, no matter how arousing it is.

Taking a deep breath he risks the graze of a thumbnail across one erect nipple, a gesture almost imperceptible in the mirror but one that immediately starts the rush of blood to his most sensitive of places. His breath hitches when the graze passes back over the firm flesh as a hard flick and a stifled sound accompanies the movement of the tip of his tongue as it sweeps across his plush, parched bottom lip. The hot flushed pink of his nipples and lips spreads quickly across his features, punctuating at his newly prominent cheek bones.

The sensation of his entire body starting to react to such minimal stimulation is a new one. Somehow Patrick holds his own gaze in the mirror, taking one nipple firmly between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index finger and squeezing progressively harder until he can feel his top teeth pressing into his bottom lip, barely able to stifle the rest of the noises queuing up patiently to come out of him.

For a split second he’s sure he hears a noise but his head is swimming with a mixture of desire and anticipation that’s muddling all his senses into one ever increasing sense of primal and close to carnal arousal. Patrick doesn't know it but he's already so far gone that he doesn’t hear the soft repeated tap at the door.

Instead he slides his free hand across his still-slick chest and grasps the stiff peak of his other nipple, rolling and squeezing, unable to break his darkened gaze from the glass in front of him. The sense of desire and need is ever more urgent, the press of his half hard cock insistent against his dress pants. The click behind him is soft yet decisive but still doesn't penetrate the haze that's descended into every cell of his body.

The furthest it feels like his eyes can move is down from the reflection of his face to the reflection of his crotch. The suits have all been cut to his exact measurements in every sense and he can see the material start to strain and pucker as the rush of blood increases. For a second he wonders if he’s finally seeing what he’s told other people see. The queue of willing bodies that hang around at the stage doors tell him how hot he is, how much everything about him he turns them on. Maybe the believing is the erotic part. Maybe what he’s needed all along is the connection in his head more than the connection with his cock of yet another hand shoved into his pants when he takes one of his flatterers back to a hotel.

Almost involuntarily his hands stop bothering his nipples and slide down towards his navel, the fresh burn of abandonment in his nipples reminding him of what he’s just been doing to them. His hands freeze when he hears a throat clear softly behind him and the low, broken and yet familiar sounding ‘Need a hand?’ breaks his reverie.

There's a beat of silence before his gasp fills the room as the blood swelling his need now rushes to his brain and takes a detour at his hot and embarrassed cheeks. The fingers that worked his lust flushed nipples now splay defensively against the creamy skin of his chest, the pads of his fingers pressing into less excess flesh than ever before but still he has to hold onto himself just to stay calm.

“I... what the fuck?”

The eyes that meet his the mirror are both strange and oh so familiar.

“You, uh, look as though you could use a little help there.”

“What are you doing here?” 

When the lips that approach his ear don’t whisper an answer into it but instead find the sensitive spot behind and kiss at it softly he can’t help but let another gasp into the air. He still can’t take his eyes off the mirror as a more olive toned hand reaches around him and covers his own, gently urging his hand to lift slightly so their fingers can intertwine.    

“Do you need a hand _Patrick_?”

The whisper finally comes and his name sounds as sinful as he's been allowing himself to feel. It's coated to the point of dripping in suggestion and lust. It rings in his ears. The soft cotton against his back feels like home, the way he squeezes the hand in his and somehow pulls it even closer to his chest feels like it should be answer enough. Patrick can't say anything, there's nothing to say. Nothing that could possibly do the moment justice in his head.

He wants to turn, to bury his face into a warm and welcoming shoulder but instead, Patrick stands transfixed at the sight of their fingers that lift to his waiting lips. He means to kiss them but instead his tongue finds fingertips, licking each one gently in turn, taking it into his mouth and lavishing it with his tongue. He relaxes into the warmth behind him, feels the press of hips against him. An arm encircles his waist, fingers brushing the soft skin of his belly and disturbing the faint downy line of hair that leads to the button on the waistband of his pants. Lips brush lightly against his neck.

He’s sure that the gulp that swallows his brazen bravery and his spiralling sense of pure need is like a sonic boom in the silence but somehow it can’t drown out the throbbing rush of blood in his ears. Decisively, he takes the fingers entwined with his and moves them carefully downwards until they're pressing against the swell beneath the once-crisp linen. The hand goes with his without objection and then gently pulls clear, nudging his upwards so it can have free access. It goes lower and palms right over the distorted fabric, the warmth it brings spreading through him like an uncontrollable wildfire. Slowly the hand cups and presses, traps and grasps.

The other hand moves and settles on his hip, pulling him back even closer and Patrick settles into the shape of a body he’s sure was only created to fit around his own. The kisses on his neck have some teeth added to them and the nipping and nibbling at his skin is just enough to distract him from the zip of his pants being slowly - almost torturously slowly - pulled down.

The groan that escapes him as he’s lifted clear of the restrictive fabric is one of pure relief. It will be a surprise that he has nothing on underneath but that's another one of his many changes. Still, he stares into the mirror, unable to tear his gaze from the sight of his own lust engorged cock as it stands proud in front of him. A single pearl glistens at the tip. Warm breath worries soft at his ear.

“God, just fucking look at you.”

How words can come with such an obvious sense of desire is something Patrick hasn't got the composure to deconstruct. He can bring feeling to anything he sings or writes, understand anything he reads but this is different. It feels different. So different. He can think like that but has never talked like that. Until now.

“Is this what you always wanted?”

The words escape his lips before he has a chance to stop them. His brain is connected only to the image in the mirror and the fingers curled around him. The hand starts to move up and down as slowly as it attacked his zip. 

“ _You_ , Patrick. I wanted you.”

The way the hand on his hip grabs at him possessively and the low, lust heavy growl at his ear causes his eyes to lid a little further but he can still see the obscene show he’s got the starring role in. That was the answer he had craved for so long. _I made myself into them for you_ he thinks _but you wanted me all along. All along._

In that moment Patrick is unashamed of anything about himself. He knows he’s powerful, desirable and desired. His eyes are transfixed on the hand working up and down his shaft and he leans back and dips his shoulder seductively, giving freer access to the side of his neck and silently asking for more. Teeth nip at the sensitive skin below his ear in answer, as a second hand sets to work, delving deep into his pants, cupping his balls and then weighing and worrying them in a spit slicked palm. 

“This is all I’ve ever wanted, Patrick”

The calloused fingers encircling his shaft move at an almost painfully slow pace, stroking and squeezing relentlessly. Patrick has never felt so _wanted_ as he watches the scene unfold before him through heavy lids. He’s leaking steadily now from the blood darkened tip that pokes obscenely above Pete’s busy fingers. He’s wanted this forever too, dreamed of it for as long as he can remember. He feels teeth sink into the soft flesh of his shoulder and relishes the fact that tomorrow morning when he wakes and wonders if, yet again, it’s just another lucid dream, the proof will be purpled there on his skin.

“I waited so long... didn’t think you were coming...”

The free flowing thoughts that escape his mouth won’t scare Pete, if anything the honesty will win him more than he risks losing. 

He feels the constant gentle rolling of his sensitive but heavy balls in Pete’s palm and works his hips in time with the motion as much as their proximity will allow. In his final show of pure wantonness he lets one of his hands slide down to caress and cover Pete’s fist, loving the vision before him of everything he’s ever wanted coming alive before his eyes. His other hand rises upwards and fists into his own hair, narrowly avoiding disturbing the horns still present and just about correct on top of his head.

If this is going to be an entirely singular moment in his life, he’s going to make it count in every way he can. He presses back, gratified by the hard swell of Pete’s cock between the cheeks of his backside as it nudges between them through the denim and cloth that separates them. The nips of teeth to his shoulder are firmer now, more urgent, as he rolls his hips in rhythm with the conjoined hands on his cock. Blood sings in his ears as a familiar tingle gathers low in his belly.

“It’s been so long... the waiting. Pete, I need... please.”

“What, Patrick? Tell me what you want.”

“Everything. _Everything._ ”

It’s the only word he has. It’s ineloquent and vague and yet a perfect reflection of how little of his brain isn’t occupied by what’s going on below his waist.

He feels Pete’s hand re-grip around him with more purchase and intent. It starts to work up and down faster and when kisses move from his shoulder to the now-bony parts of his jawline he takes the hint. His dropped shoulder lets Patrick turn his head just enough to meet Pete’s eager mouth. Suddenly they’re really, deeply kissing and it’s like the final piece of the puzzle falls into place. It’s the same and yet different to every other kiss he’s had, not that there have been that many in truth. It tastes of too much time spent waiting, too much time literally wasted. 

He tries to let the need for an orgasm come and go before finally giving in to it but the steadily increasing pace of Pete’s fist under his has other ideas. The hand is unrelenting and pushes him closer and closer to the edge with every stroke.

His tongue wants to explore every part of Pete’s mouth. Taste it, savour it, commit it to memory. He wants to steal every breath from Pete and make them his own. His hand and Pete’s are one and the same, bringing him ever closer to the moment that he’s only ever felt before on his own. Night after night he’s tried in vain to stroke and tug away the all consuming need. Each time he’s come with Pete’s name on his lips and a gaping hole in his heart. He’s beyond rational thought now as he chases his orgasm, sprinting through memories of near misses, guiding and urging Pete’s fist to move ever faster beneath his own

Gently but deliberately Pete breaks the kiss, the desperate noises echoing into it now filling the room.

“Look in the mirror Patrick. Watch yourself. It’s just... it’s so fucking beautiful.”  

Patrick turns his head as instructed and instantly knows Pete is right. His reflection is the very definition of pornographic. It's a seductively seedy image; Pete's hands working hard in unison, the tattooed arm crossing his hip as the hand down his pants rolls and teases. The other hand is barely big enough to get comfortably around or up and down him but it's Pete so it works. Of course it works. He glimpses at Pete's face through the mirror and he’s staring intently at him. Their eyes meet briefly before he sees Pete look away, his mouth coming close to his ear again.

“Watch you, not me. I'm gonna watch as I make you come all over us.”

Patrick sees it finally, it’s all true. He's looking at more than the shape of his bones or the sheen on his skin. It's everything, _he's_ everything. His body is thrumming with pleasure, taken somewhere other worldly by Pete’s hands. He wants it all and has it all, even if just for tonight. A smile appears on his face; sinful, prepossessing, tempting – the face of the devil himself. So many times Pete had made him into who he was and this final moment completes him in every way possible. Someone he once said didn't want to be, someone he swore he would never be and in that moment of peaking, someone he felt born to be.

“Pete...”

His voice is breaking and broken, pleading and pleasing to even his own ear.

“Let go Patrick... let it all go.”

He feels the sharp spasm hit him like a sledgehammer to the heart, shattering every worry and hangup about being not good enough, being lesser than, being a second choice with no chance. The anchoring hand still cupping his balls paired with the hard body behind his back stops him from collapsing at his middle as thick, forceful white splashes ruin his dress pants and make a mess of both their hands. Behind his eyes he takes the most accurate mental photograph he can. Nothing will ever be as perfect again. Even in the volcanic heat of the best orgasm he’s ever had Patrick already knows everything is forever changed.

A hot, wet mouth sucks and bites at his neck as Pete shows his appreciation for the show and Patrick watches on as he's devoured in a more leisurely fashion. He doesn't want Pete to let go of any part of him yet and finds it easy to mourn the loss of the hands that have so easily sent him over the edge when they move. Strong arms wrap around him tightly, Pete's chin comes to rest on his shoulder. He doesn't mind being such a dishevelled, hot and spent mess if it comes as part and parcel of feeling as good as he does. From the deep red bite marks that are forming the best kind of bruises on his skin to the tingly feeling still travelling all over and through him.

“I'm sorry I kept you waiting. I... I didn't know what you wanted.”

Patrick shakes his head, forgiving every lost moment.

“Doesn't matter Pete. This is all that matters.”

He tilts his head and rests it against Pete's temple, the satisfied smile on his face a more genuine reflection of the Patrick he is and always has been.

“You were great out there tonight. So good. They loved you.”

There's a pause as Pete very deliberately licks his lips. Patrick wishes he was doing it for him. He goes to shape a word, maybe an offer to help, but sees and feels Pete shake his head, telling him to wait.

“I loved you too.”

Every goosebump he's had for the past fifteen minutes springs back to life in that instant. It's not that he didn't already know that Pete loved him, it's no secret that they've loved each other for years, but Patrick hopes that finally Pete can give him the love he needs. He doesn't want to assume too much but it's not the time or the place or the mood for that conversation when he's still so utterly lust drunk. He needs them to get out of the venue and to take Pete to his hotel, hopefully to his bed. There's a lot of lost time to make up for.

“Stay with me tonight Pete.”

His words are a little more than a whisper but he can tell with the grin on Pete's face that they're loud enough.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

In less than five minutes everything that belongs to Patrick is rammed into the bags he brought to the venue. Pete leaves first, working his way back through the crowd who still don't recognise him with the hat pulled down so far over his eyes. He gets out onto the cold October streets, hands rammed into his pockets as he hurries two blocks down to the rental he left parked in a nearby lot.

Patrick leaves via the stage door, his bag and guitar clutched close to him. His car is waiting to take him to the hotel and although he stops to sign two autographs for those brave enough to miss Panic and stand in the cold for him, he's soon speeding across Hollywood and towards a date with destiny. He looks in the rear view mirror of the car and sees that he still has the horns on. With a lop sided smile he finally takes them off, switching them off so they sit dull in his palm. Where he's headed he doesn't need them. Not yet, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from JT's song 'Mirrors' - relevant lyrics are relevant.
> 
> Aren't you somethin' to admire?/'Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror/And I can't help but notice/You reflect in this heart of mine/If you ever feel alone and/The glare makes me hard to find/Just know that I'm always/Parallel on the other side <3
> 
> And if you'd like to treat yourself to some Devil Patrick busting out Ghostbusters then [please do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBX2T__P2Sc)
> 
> Thanks for reading :) All reads, comments and kudos appreciated :)


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